The Summation of Loss
by LCsquee
Summary: John tries to ignore the cold, the noises, the ticks in his hands. He walks bravely through cold spots and stares unseeingly at the telly as it changes channels, the remote four feet away. He smothers the oddities and strain on his mind under his pillow, burying his face at night into the case to keep his teeth from rattling.


_**The Summation of Loss**_

Pairings: None

Warnings: Character Death

Characters: John, Sherlock, and Mycroft

John doesn't hear him. But he does. He just won't let himself know it. He moves around the flat, fiddling with his teacup and tapping the case files on the walls impatiently. Spare change disappears from his pockets, winding up in the sink's U-bend. Floorboards creak next to his bed, the covers twitch. His pillow turns cool. John wakes to an empty room, walks through a chilly flat. He hears the creaking of him on the couch, at the kitchen table, in the walls. He thinks he can hear the light, slick finger pad-to-key of texting in the frame of Sherlock's bedroom door.

It's chilly in certain areas of the flat. John has to dress in layers, but no amount of clothing keeps the unexpected cube-down-your-spine he feels when he touches a beaker or smoothed-silky piece of rosin. Sometimes- if stands very quietly in front of Sherlock's chair- and his heartbeat slows as if to the sluggish call of sleep pills- and he's almost back in Afghanistan nights of desert cold- his breath will billow up in pearly clouds, shivering and spiraling like cigarette smoke up to the ceiling.

John tries to ignore the cold, the noises, the ticks in his hands. He walks bravely through cold spots and stares unseeingly at the telly as it changes channels, the remote four feet away. He smothers the oddities and strain on his mind under his pillow, burying his face at night into the case to keep his teeth from rattling. He keeps up the pace of a normal man's life, working and surviving from day to day in a monotonous haze. All is going fairly smoothly, missing keys and habitually opened cupboard doors aside. And then Mycroft pays him a visit.

The man shows up in the evening, just as John is washing up from dinner. The man is not pale, but his is thin. And drooping. John lets him in, mumbling about tea and possible locations of cups. The cups are warm in his hands. They leave little rings on the coffee table, Mycroft drinking more readily form his than John could remember. They sit on the couch, sometimes in silence, sometimes making words that sound soft and reminiscent.

Mycroft's hand touches his as they reach for their tea once more, and the temperature drops a little. John ignores it. But the room grows steadily colder. Mycroft coughs, his eyes narrow. The pillow in Sherlock's chair quivers, a small indent in the middle sinking. John firmly keeps his mind oblivious. Mycroft leans sideways across the couch, slowly wrapping an arm around John's shoulders. John can't bring himself to mind. He leans into the man, warmth leaking into his right side as his left freezes almost painfully. The cups rattle on the coffee table. Mycroft turns his face toward John, angling down to the small soldier. The pillow trembles in the chair, the light fade in and out and papers diagraming murder sprees rustle on the wall. Mycroft breathes out hot breath on his ear, puffing the same white clouds that John stutters out. "Brother dear, quit the foreplay and talk to us, hmm?" He whispers into John's skin before planting his lips to his temple.

And then John is tingling and numb and being dunked into ice water and surfacing in boiling, bubbling lava, and he's talking in a deep voice he hears whisper from the confines of the refrigerator at night, _"Piss off back to your dear inspector." _

Mycroft's grip tightens on him, though John feels it as if through a pile of blankets. Mycroft pulls John's body into a tight hug, a jerky, quick motion with a stream of half-sobbed clouds. "I knew you were here, you _idiot_."

And John's body is relaxing, leaning into the embrace. Mycroft is running his hands restlessly over his back, like they are looking for familiar footing in the folds of John's jumper. "I-I tried calling you, just like we planned—it was forever ago, just that experiment we devised when we were young… but you never came through." Mycroft is shivering, and somehow John knows his body is freezing, knows his lips are turning blue.

John's mouth presses to Mycroft's cheek, and he can feel some emotion pass through him, muted but _warm_- he's speaking again, "_I heard you call. I tried to follow it over to you, but I am a bit… tied up here." _His voice booms out and echoes around the room. Mycroft makes a noise of understanding, one of those I-guessed-as-much-and-have-now-confirmed-it noises that only Holmeses are capable of.

"_I don't have long, he's slipping." _

Mycroft withdraws after a moment, pale and shaky, but his eyes are like they once were, when John met him in the warehouse. He collects himself before John's clouded eyes, sinking his emotions back into the folds of his Holmes mind, and when he speaks again, it sounds almost like Mycroft is back to normal,"I noticed, poor man. I'll be off, but I'll be in touch." He stands up, one hand trailing along the back of the couch to give John's body a _look._ "Stop teasing him," he finally says, color coming back to his face, "and for goodness' sake, try asking him permission next time—or else he may end up joining you."

A growl of defiance rises up in his in John, jumbling in his mouth and transforming into a low, _"I know." _And then John is spinning and dunking into bathwater and rising up through stinging snow and is suddenly _back._ And he's shivering, his whole body stuttering and trying to remember how to operate, eyes rolling back to meet his brain. He convulses and falls to the floor, purple fingernails scrabbling at the rug for purchase. Mycroft's shiny shoes appear, and he's being lifted by the armpits and led to the couch. His hands grip the man's forearms, and he sees his skin is a whiter shade of pale, blue veins swimming in and out of focus. His head flops back, and Mycroft's face is decidedly more concerned than before. The world slows down, and then blackness takes him.

John wakes up in the early hours of the morning. He's lying in bed under all the world's quilts, a familiar-smelling electric blanket practically burning against his skin at the bottom of the pile. He lays in bed. It's a Wednesday. He's got work. His clothes from the other day are sticking to him, overheated and sweaty. He throws off the blankets and rolls over to the other side of his mattress. A cold spot is waiting for him there, and he feels _remorse_ glide in a stream of cool air across his cheek.

John's throat closes, his lungs fold around his heart and out of his mouth he splits it into halves as he gasps, "Sherlock!"

He's lying on a blue robe, cold to the touch. And his pillow has pushed all the little oddities back into his mind. Cupboard doors don't open on their own. Change doesn't mysteriously transport itself from his pocket to the sink. Breath doesn't fog in when the thermostat is set high. Walls don't whisper. He slides off the bed to the floor, the cold spot following.

"_Sherlock."_

The robe is twisted between his hands. His cellphone pings a new text message on the night stand. He fumbles, navigates the buttons to read. And throws it. It bounces off the wall and leaps back to his hand.

_John, I'm sorry. - SH_

"Dammit Sherlock."

Ping!

_You ignored me for so long. – SH_

"I-I, what, but—"

Ping!

_I wanted to talk to you, not drive you mad or freeze you to death. –SH_

Ping!

_John, talk to me. –SH_

Ping!

_John, no, don't cry. –SH_

Ping!

_I'm sorry. Please talk to me. –SH_

"Stop it. Just stop it Sherlock." John gasps, folding himself around the robe, "Stop haunting me."

Ping!

… _I don't know how else to behave. –SH_

And John laughs, the pieces falling into place, because the bastard's absolutely right. He's acting no different than when he was alive. He's not haunting him; he's just acting like his normal git self on a different plane. And the laughter is rocking him and he's still crying, but there's a light growing brighter behind him. Blue, and brightening. He looks back.

"Sherlock."

"_John."_

_..._

_..._

_A/N: This is from a long while ago, right after the Reichenbach episode, so please excuse... uhm, everything._


End file.
